Death Masks on Level 7

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Baby I saw the boredom in your eyes. Another crash landing. I’m no detective but I know all the secrets are in the basement. It’s the only place to store them along with your dissected emotions and your prototype pacemaker. Up on Level 7 you still keep the rabbit in your bedside table drawer – shouldn’t you be using rechargeable batteries?

Sami knew there was a string of evidence against her that could be used in any court up and down, and across the four islands of these lands. Though there are thousands of satellite islands we can count them as insignificant to the demographic.
Facts that hung like fish snared on hooks, dangling from a line that drifted for miles and miles out to deeper waters. Wasn’t that really where you should have set the cadavers down.

Michael sat on the sofa. Feeling that he was trying too hard. She was attractive. There was plenty of time to open doors and move into comfort zones. But beneath her calm and almost superficial persona he sensed an intensity that might just be overwhelming.
He remembered when they had sex last week and she was about to hit the O zone she cried out, I don’t like snow, I don’t like snow.
Michael picked up one of two masks set on plinths from on top of the coffee table.
My husband, she said returning from collecting a bottle of Stoly from the icebox. And the other a former lover. Death masks I made just after murdering them. On separate occasions you understand.
Somehow he doesn’t look your type, he said lifting it in front of his own face.
Don’t mock the dead. He wasn’t my type but I loved him. I loved them both.
She poured two shots and threw hers back before Michael could even replace the mask onto the table.

Sundays before going to the mall with her mom Sami would dutifully take flowers to the gravesides of those whose lives she had ended. She might not respected them in life but death was an altogether different matter. One to be respected.
And the flowers. Always roses, always red. Never pink, white or yellow. In honour of the dead she extended her careful colour consideration to her underwear. At home she had two drawers stuffed with various shades of pink, beige and black. Both of the deceased said she looked hot in black. Another lover insisted on buying her red lingerie which he classified as scarlet. She let it go. Although he deserved to be plugged more than the others she allowed the relationship to fade out. Murdering him would have led to a colour imbalance. Red or black bra, red or black pantie permutations. She could do without such complications. She stuck to black.

Sami’s mom had never asked questions when the deaths were reported both in newspapers and tv. Both were media types. With high profiles.
On Tuesdays and Fridays she would go to Sami’s to do some housework; emptying or filling the dishwasher, filling or emptying the washing machine, tumble drying the wash, vacuuming and dusting. Rarely did she overlook the two death masks on the table. Sometimes she would collect them and place them on the table on the balcony whilst she smoked one of Sami’s Kents.
Another blue sky day gentlemen.
She thought, Maybe Sami should be writing crime fiction and not love stories.

Oh sweetie I saw the boredom in your eyes.

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